


mourir

by viscrael



Category: No. 6 - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drabble, Gen, Grief/Mourning, im just venting my own grief thru this dumb lil thing, this is just sad and nonsensical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 04:30:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4592913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The cause of death was unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mourir

The cause of death was unknown.

One day he was fine, the next he was six feet under. That’s what he was told at least. Those silver eyes, vacant. Unseeing. Empty.

The funeral felt rushed and cheap and unworthy. Black, black, black—the color of death, he was supposed to wear that to the reception, knew he really should’ve worn it every day for the rest of his life if that was supposed to show grief. But it didn’t feel black.

The funeral felt gray.

Gray and blue and dark pink. Felt like ice-cold sheets in an empty bed. Felt like having a lump stuck in your throat permanently, felt like being forced underwater without enough air, felt like trying to cry and not getting the tears out, felt like people he didn’t know coming up to him and saying _sorry_ as if an apology would make things better, felt like all the casseroles he ate for days after, gifts that were tasteless and just as empty as he was. He ate to pass the time, but nothing had flavor.

Nights were the worst, because he could fall asleep and forget that it had happened, because he had a moment of bliss after he woke up before he remembered that his bed was empty and he was empty and everything was empty.

Gray, gray, gray. Not silver. Gray.

Inukashi worried about him. They cried a lot too, just not in front of him. They didn’t mention it, didn’t bring the topic up, but they stayed with him some nights when he couldn’t sleep or he was afraid of what would happen if he did. They didn’t sing him to sleep like his mother did, but they mumbled stories about their mama and their dogs and that was similar enough. The sentiment still stood.

The dark was frightening. Thunderstorms shook him. Every time he turned a corner he felt like he was there—he was there, he was back, a ghost, haunting, not letting him sleep and not letting him think. Shion wasn’t sure he believed in God, but he prayed to whatever was up there, prayed that things would be okay, that he could go on.

It felt like hopeful thinking, to think he could ever be the same.

 


End file.
